


Circular

by mandii



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandii/pseuds/mandii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a given, hatred is acquired. Francis and Arthur have hated each other and loved each other so much over the course of a thousand years that things start to develop a pattern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circular

There are times when Francis Bonnefoy swears he hates Arthur Kirkland more than any other person, entity, or thing on this planet. And there are times when Arthur Kirkland swears on the grave of Queen Victoria that Francis Bonnefoy is by far the most idiotic stupid poofter that ever walked the earth, and that he’d be better off rotting in a hole somewhere like the idiot he is. Their hate is a reckless fury, a driving force, and the entire world knows it when they’re off again. French swears fly like bullets, and Arthur drinks far too much during meetings and makes crueler comments than usual, the debacle disintegrating into an all-out fight on the plush carpet of the meeting. Arthur punches; Francis bites and kicks and tears hair out, and it’s always a toss-up as to who wins. Francis usually surrenders first, usually holds up his arms and calls Arthur a bastard, a whore of shit, his pride wounded yet his nose up in the air as he storms away.  
  
They still text each other when they’re in such a stage.   
  
“Liar,” one message reads simply.  
  
“Coward,” says another.  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“I hate you too.”  
  
“I hate you even more.”  
  
And it goes on. Their hatred circles them both - Spain and Prussia are left to deal with a sobbing Frenchman on their shoulders, sobbing about how the English are pigs and stupid and impolite and don’t know how to have a relationship to save their pathetic little lives. Francis claims to have always been drunk when he was with him, claims that everything is horrible, and winds up taking a blonde man with a British accent home with him after plying him with quite enough wine to do so. Francis loses himself in his life, makes himself available for every social function even possible, always showing up with a designer suit and an air of arrogance to match. He’s always been good at getting over things. He’s always been good at blaming Arthur for nearly everything wrong in his life; passing on as if now he’s finally free to do whatever he wishes.  
  
And Arthur spends a few nights in a pub, somewhere north where only the regulars know his name, and no one really knows he’s the country of England. He drinks until he’s sick, and then drinks even more until he can barely stand, and then hates his tolerance for making the dizzied haze last all of a few brief, fleeting moments. When that happens he drinks more. And stays until they close, only to come back when they open and repeat the cycle for several days. He’s back and ready for work in a matter of a week, and comes back like nothing ever happened. He pretends Francis doesn’t exist, like he’s some black mark on his history, allowing their leaders to decide things for them.  
  
They hate each other for a month or two, and then they settle into that absent state of cooperation where they have to work together. They begrudgingly get over themselves, and the fights still happen - but they happen less and less, and are more or less just barbs tossed back and forth rather than physical manifestations. Arthur rolls his eyes at France’s foreign policies and France shoots every little idea Arthur has down the drain, either implying that they wouldn’t have money for such a thing or that it hurts the good of the people. France is all talk, all pompous, irritating talk, and Arthur throws it in his face every now and again, leading to the culmination of one of them walking out before the meeting’s even through. This happens for however long it takes, usually a year or two, maybe even longer. Francis still goes to social functions to forget his own name and find someone else’s, and Arthur still occasionally makes the drive to Newcastle to drink his own name away.  
  
Then something happens. Sometimes it’s a small thing. Usually it’s something plain and simple, like Francis agreeing with Arthur on a political issue, and taking his side. Sometimes it’s the anniversary of the Entente Cordiale and Arthur shows up at the frenchman’s apartment with a bouquet of lilies and a bottle of some vintage wine Francis gave him years ago that he’s bound to have forgotten. Sometimes these things all happen within a day, within seven hours of each other and Francis wraps his arms around Arthur and holds him close, smelling of white musk, flowers and something unmistakably French. Arthur sometimes hates that smell, but now he revels in it - buries his face in Francis’ chest and wraps his arms around him.  
  
They end up sleeping together, and Francis knows his body more intimately than anyone ever has - Francis seems to be the one who knows it best, knows how to map from the edges of his collarbone to right below his hip, kissing out possessive marks. And nobody knows how possessive Francis can be, nobody knows just how ruthless Francis can be with his teeth and his tongue and just the right amount of suction as he takes Arthur past the point of no return, makes the man bury his hand in blond curls and pray to god Francis never leaves again. Arthur knows how to retaliate, knows to let him take things slow, knows it gives Francis such immense pleasure when he can spend as long as he wants, no matter how much he wants to grit out for him to get onto it. He’s patient to a point.  
  
And then that point disappears and Arthur slams Francis down on the mattress and rides him until they both cry out in ecstasy, and there’s that fleeting moment. There’s the moment that there’s something whispered, something faint like, “I missed you,” and Arthur crumbles on top of him and lets Francis hold him. It’s beautiful, and sweet, and Francis makes him breakfast in the morning, _pain au chocolat_ with a cup of strong coffee and a weak, watered down black tea that he only uses when Arthur stays over. They don’t fight for days, every little remark Francis makes making him only more endearing, Francis looking at him during meetings as if he’s about to swallow him whole. Things change from biting little comments to Francis’s teeth dragging over the column of his neck in the bathroom after Alfred’s said his piece.  
  
They love each other like a whirlwind, Francis leaving Arthur painstakingly hand-crafted little love notes on post-it paper, and Arthur awkwardly fumbling out the words “I love you,” in a dimly lit afterglow. They spend more time together than possibly healthy, Francis sneaking into Buckingham in the middle of the night to fall asleep with the other man. Arthur grows comforted by the smell of white musk and flowers and starts burying his face into Francis’s clothes when he’s not there, his arms curled around a Hermes jacket with a tenderness most don’t see. Francis brings him roses. Arthur brings him lilies.   
  
And then it ends. Months later, sometimes years, it ends with lipstick on Arthur’s mirror, and he knows Francis’s calligraphy well enough to know that it’s his hand that writes ‘I hate you’ in such lovely letters. It ends with Arthur staring down a bottle, and punching a drunken text that calls Francis a coward and a liar.

 


End file.
